


(Sometimes I Have Good Days)

by solfell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All my Reichenbach feelings, Angst, Headcanon, M/M, POV First Person, Post Reichenbach, pseudo established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solfell/pseuds/solfell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m learning to live blindly in a world where I can’t see you. </p><p>I hope it’s enough.</p><p>And I hope that, one day, on a good day, I’ll stop praying for you to come back to me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Sometimes I Have Good Days)

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this soon after The Reichenbach Fall aired, and I've been tweaking it on and off ever since. It says 'first person point of view' on the tin, but it's not exactly that. Technically, it can be taken as something from John's POV, but much of it is through my own filter, and therefore doesn't sound much like John.
> 
> Headcanon abounds. Reader beware: I wax poetic about flowers in here and I'm still not sure from where that came. Be gentle with me; this is my first foray into the Sherlock fanfic world.
> 
> Triggers: There's mention of suicide, but it's not enacted. I feel I should put some sort of warning, regardless.

I have bad days.

 

I _still_ have bad days.

 

I have days when everything is so very _not okay_ , when I have to lock myself in my room and forget there are over two hundred and seventeen ways for me to kill myself with just what's inside the flat. 

 

I have bad days and I can feel _every single heartbeat_ in my chest. With every heartbeat, I am reminded that your heart is buried deep, away from eyes that might recognize it. I am reminded your heart is silent. Silent and so very still. It will remain still, and nothing can change that.

 

It’s been three months. I don’t take visitors, even though everyone says I should. I know I should. But I don’t. No one wants to see me like this. I don’t want to see me like this. I’ve convinced myself I’m not long for the world, even though I know I’ll still be here in ten years, listlessly moving through the rooms that were once ours.

 

I should leave.

 

I should _leave_.

 

They keep telling me to come home, but they know that’s the last thing I want.

 

This was home. Home was here. Right _here_ , in the places where you once stood and paced and fidgeted and _breathed_.

 

I’m waiting for the day when it starts being home again.

 

I have good days.

 

Would you believe it? I have good days, too. When it rains, usually, and everything is muted and warm. Muted. That’s the best part. I can just _sink_ down into blissful nothingness.

 

I’m so bored without you. I think if you were here now, it would be a sort of triumph for you, knowing how much I needed you. How much I still need you.

 

Everyone lied when they said it would get better. It doesn’t. Not really.

 

But still, I _do_ have good days. I take walks. I smile at the pretty barista when I get my coffee. The park is beautiful this time of year, though I know you never had much of an interest in trees and flowers. I know you knew I did; you knew I loved flowers and earth and rain. You thought it was silly, my love of nature. You bought me flowers, despite how _dull_ they were. But even your artist’s eye could see the beauty in the mundane things. Like stars.

 

I can’t have flowers in our home anymore. With your funeral came an influx of _flowers_. So many, many flowers. People said it was because you bought them so often. They thought you had this inexplicable love for them, but you didn’t. It was me. It was all me. I was the only soft thing in your life, but they didn’t know that. How could they?

 

And even after all the lies and whispers and betrayals, they still sent flowers. Perhaps they meant well, but it just feels like salt in an open wound. Sand in your eyes.

 

I can’t accept flowers from by anyone but you. It’s too much and too painful. It’s too many scents, colors and nights wrapped together under icy snowfalls and mornings bursting with the damp newness of spring. It’s the color of your eyes, mimicked in the bluebells. It’s the flash of your sudden and brilliant insight like the splash of color brought forth by the blooming hibiscus.

 

My heart can’t do it, the flowers.

 

Most days, there’s nothing. Most days are neither bad nor good. They just _are_ , and that’s the most excruciating thing about being here while you’re dead. I didn’t merely exist when you were here. I didn’t float through a miasma of _being_. I exist, like how I existed before. But now, I don’t live. I’m alive, but I don’t live.

 

I don’t think you would ever say it, but I know you would want me to live. You would want me to keep standing tall and whatever other clichéd nonsense there is out there in the world. You wouldn’t have me break under the pressure of the vacuum in my chest. You wouldn’t want to see me crumble.

 

So I won’t. For you, I won’t. Because no one else knew you like I knew you. No one else had the privilege. And if I am gone, then it will be as if you never were. I am proof that, when I had you while I had you, you were human. You were the best and the worst of us and the world is so empty and dark now without your buoyant luminosity.

 

It’s so dark without you, even on the good days.

 

I’m learning to live blind.

 

I’m learning to horde and store up memories of you—the small things and the large things and everything between. I keep them close, these memories, and I wear them like armor, even though by the end of the day I feel so heavy. You help me through the battle, though, even if I cannot often go to the places we once haunted or speak very long with the people we once knew. Meeting you on my own terms is all that seems to help.

 

I’m learning to live blind.

 

No matter what kind of day it is, I’m learning to live blind. To ignore that you’re _not here_ and _not coming back_. I’m learning to rememorize your face and your gestures and the feeling of your presence. I’m learning to carry all of that, even though it hurts like nothing I’ve ever known before, within myself. I’m learning to live blindly in a world where I can’t see you.

 

I hope it’s enough.

 

And I hope that, one day, on a good day, I’ll stop praying for you to come back to me.

 

 

 


End file.
